Last Known Victim (32 page)

Patti leaned forward. “One last question, Dr. Gonzales. Could she have become so involved in her fantasy that she began…making it real?”

“It's already real to her, Captain.”

“Let me rephrase that. Could she begin…playing other roles in the fantasy?”

“Are you asking me if she could take the next step? Take the story from the world of fantasy to the real world? For example, actually kill someone?”

“I am asking that, yes.”

“The human mind is capable of creating anything that can be imagined.”

“You mean, she could create a role and become it? Like she's playing several parts in a play?”

“Yes.” Dr. Lucia smiled. “That said, however, it would be a big step.”

Patti's cell vibrated a third time. When she saw that it was again Spencer, she excused herself to answer. “Captain O'Shay.”

“Where are you?”

“On four.”

“You better get down here. We're going for a ride.”

Something in his tone made her blood run cold. “What's going on?”

“Meet me at the elevators on one. I'll tell you then.”

Friday, May 18, 2007
11:00 a.m.

S
pencer was waiting at the first-floor elevators. “Fill me in,” she said as they fell into step together.

“Rich Ruston. I called him back. He claims Shauna's missing.”

“Missing? What does that mean? Packed up and gone, or—”

“MIA. Said all her stuff was there. Guy was rattled. I told him I'd meet him at her apartment.”

Shauna rented half an old Uptown Camelback, a variation on the traditional New Orleans-style shotgun.

They exited the building. Patti squinted against the brilliant May sun; in unison, they reached for their sunglasses.

“He said Shauna didn't return his calls, so he went to check on her and she was gone.”

“What about her car?”

“Parked in the drive.”

Patti thought of Tonya Messinger. The scenarios were uncomfortably similar. She shook the thought off. “It's probably nothing,” she said.

“That's what I told him.”

Now you begin to regret your interference.

On the drive, Patti filled him in on her conversation with Dr. Lucia.

When she finished, Spencer whistled. “So, you're saying that Yvette could be punishing you for interfering with her fantasy?”

“According to Dr. Gonzales, it's possible.” He turned onto Shauna's street, and Patti experienced an overwhelming feeling of dread. “She also said, ‘The human mind is capable of creating anything that can be imagined.'”

“That won't help me sleep at night.”

“Tell me about it.”

Rich Ruston was waiting on the small front porch. His self-confident air gone, he looked pale and shaken.

“Thanks for calling us, Rich,” Patti said when they reached the porch. “Tell me what you told Spencer.”

“When Shauna didn't return my calls, I came to check on her.”

“You have a key?”

“Yes. But I rang the bell first, then knocked. When she didn't answer, I let myself in.”

“How many times did you call?”

“At least a dozen.”

“Her cell phone—”

“And home. Left messages on both.”

Patti thought of Tonya, of Yvette's many calls to her. She cleared her throat. “When did this begin?”

“Last night. We—” He bit back whatever he had been about to say.

Patti frowned. “You what?”

“We had a fight. I stormed out.”

“What was the fight about?” Spencer asked.

The man looked uncomfortable. “Her working so much. She accused me of being jealous of her success.”

“Are you?”

“No! Just…it seemed like her painting was getting all her attention and I…We fought about it.”

“You ‘stormed' out, then had a change of heart and called her?”

“Yes. At first I just figured she was still mad at me. Then I started to worry. Shauna's not the type…you know, to keep a mad on.”

She wasn't. She also wasn't the type to try to punish or scare someone who had hurt her.

“Let's take a look around.”

He unlocked the apartment; they asked him to wait for them on the porch. “Shauna,” Spencer called, stepping inside. “It's me. And Aunt Patti.”

Habit from years of on-the-job entering, Patti thought. Announce yourself. Head off ugly surprises.

Shauna didn't respond, which wasn't unexpected. As they made their way deeper into the apartment, Patti noted the “frozen moment” condition of the apartment, especially in the studio. Shauna had left her paintbrushes soaking in turpentine, her palette uncovered. On her worktable lay her iPod, headphones and a half-drunk mochassippi, a local coffeehouse chain's signature drink. She had removed her painting smock and tossed it over the back of a chair.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickling, Patti looked at Spencer. He, too, gazed at the revealing tableau.

“It's like she was working and stopped suddenly.”

“To answer the door.”

“Or run a quick errand.”

Closer inspection revealed Shauna's purse and cell phone were gone. Her clothes and toiletries all appeared accounted for. The message light on the phone was blinking. They returned to the kitchen, to the phone's base station. Patti hit Play. An obviously still angry Rich's voice filled the room. That call had come in at 9:10 p.m. Then another at nine-forty and another pretty much every half hour. As the calls progressed, his tone shifted from angry to concerned. His were the only calls that had come in.

“He called from his cell phone,” Spencer murmured, checking the display. “They're 232 numbers. He could have made the calls from anywhere.”

Patti brought a hand to her temple. Exactly what she had said about Yvette's calls to Tonya.

“Aunt Patti?” There was no mistaking the concern in his voice. She met his gaze.

“That note you got this morning from the Artist. What did it say again?”

“Now you begin to regret your interference.”

“That's what I thought it said. Do you think there's any chance—”

“I don't want to go there, Spencer. Not yet. Let's make certain she's actually missing. Call everyone in the family, find out if they've heard from her and when's the last time they talked to her. Call June and Riley at the gallery, ask the same thing.”

“And if none of them have heard from her?”

“Move on to friends and acquaintances. Anyone you can think of. Get a couple of uniforms over to begin a door-to-door, and bring Ruston downtown for further questioning.”

“And if none of it pans out?”

“Then we'll talk about the Artist.”

Friday, May 18, 2007
12:10 p.m.

N
o one in the family had heard from Shauna. The neighborhood sweep had turned up little except for one neighbor confirming the time of Shauna and Rich's fight and that he had, indeed, stormed out. This information had come from the single mother who lived next door.

Rich had provided a list of friends and acquaintances; the ones they had been able to reach had not seen or heard from her.

Spencer had yet to speak with Stacy, but he didn't hold out much hope that Shauna was with her.

He tapped on Patti's open door.

She waved him in. “How'd it go with Ruston?”

“He stuck to his story like he was glued to it. Never varied.”

“You think he's telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I do. He didn't exhibit any of the signs of lying. Kept eye contact, didn't even break a sweat. Seemed genuinely freaked out. Of course, none of that means he was being truthful.”

Just that, if he was lying, he was really good at it.

“I want to put someone on Ruston, anyway. I don't want him to make a move we don't know about.”

“Agreed.” Spencer flexed his fingers, frustrated, itching to act. “This is such bullshit! Why are we sitting here when we should be out there, looking for her!”

“An all-radio bulletin has been sent,” she said, countering his emotion with calm. “Every patrol unit has Shauna's description.”

“Where the hell's the rest of the family?”

“On their way.”

As if on cue, John Jr. burst into the office. Moments behind him was Percy, then Mary. Quentin rolled in last, out of breath.

“Sorry,” he said, “I was in court. What's the emergency?”

“Shauna,” Percy said. “She's gone missing.”

“Gone missing? What the hell?”

“Where's Stacy?” Mary asked.

“Not certain,” Spencer replied. “On the job. I'll fill her in.”

Patti began, “There's a chance Shauna's been abducted by a killer who calls himself the Artist.”

She passed around the note she'd received that morning. While they each read it, she filled them in on the investigation so far—their suspicions about Yvette, the notes, the connection to the Handyman case and the Maytree and Messinger murders.

Spencer stepped in. “This chick's good, no doubt about it. But parts of her story weren't adding up. We called her in for questioning yesterday, then acquired a search warrant. Now she's gone.”

“And suddenly the Artist is back in play,” Patti added. “In addition, the department psychologist said it's possible that Yvette's acting out a fantasy. When I stopped believing in it, I incurred her ire.”

“But why would Shauna go anywhere with Borger?” asked Percy.

“Shauna met Yvette at June's gallery the night of her opening,” Patti said. “So she wouldn't have been a stranger. Somehow she convinced her into coming with her.”

They all began talking at once.

“I don't like the look of this.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Ruston's a creep, he could be lying.”

“Could be,” Patti agreed, “but we don't think so.”

“We have another option,” Quentin offered quietly.

Everyone looked at him. “That Yvette was telling the truth about the Artist.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Mary cleared her throat. “Which could mean the Artist has Yvette
and
Shauna.”

Two women's lives in danger.

Spencer's cell phone vibrated; certain it was finally Stacy, he answered without checking the display.

“I was getting worried. Where are you?”

“Malone?”

Not Stacy.
“Yeah. Who's this?”

“Rene Baxter. I was wondering if Killian's with you.”

For a moment Spencer allowed himself to doubt what he'd heard, then he went cold with dread.

Not Stacy. Please not Stacy, too.

He lifted his gaze—and found Patti looking at him. He shifted his attention back to Rene. “She's not there?”

“Checked in this morning, then disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared'? She's not a goddammed ghost!”

The room around him went silent. He felt as if someone had just set a piano on his chest.

“Chill, man. She was here and went out. I assumed—”

“She say anything to Cooper?”

“No. Like I was saying—”

“Is her SUV there?”

“Didn't check. Just assumed—”

“Check, dammit! Now! I'm on my way.”

Friday, May 18, 2007
9:00 p.m.

L
ate that afternoon it had become official—Stacy was missing. No one had seen or spoken with her since that morning. Her Explorer was still parked in the lot that serviced the Eighth District station.

Spencer was out of his mind with worry. The Malone clan had gathered at John Jr.'s and set up a sort of family “command central.” The women had strict orders not to go off alone. Same for the children, though Patti didn't believe the Artist would harm them.

The Artist had established his MO: he—or she—went for women, even when the punishment was directed not at them but at her.

Now you begin to regret your interference.

Word had spread throughout the department, and support from the rest of the force had been overwhelming. An incredible amount of manpower had been dedicated to finding the two women—and protecting the others. Off-duty patrols volunteered to cruise neighborhoods or stand watch at John Jr.'s.

This was an act against their own. Against a family who had given their lifeblood to the NOPD. Against a detective who, although new to the force, had stayed during the worst natural disaster in American history and laid her life on the line for their community, their people.

Patti was moved by their support. She prayed it helped keep the people she loved safe. But in her heart she knew the Artist wouldn't rest until she had been punished to his satisfaction.

He had found her most tender spot—her family. He had realized that hurting them would wound her more than any physical act against her person.

Not so long ago, she had thought that she had nothing left to lose. How wrong she had been.

And until the maniac decided on his next move, she, the rest of her family, and the entire NOPD were helpless.

She pulled up to her home. Not a light shone from its windows. The porch was dark. When she'd left this morning, finding Yvette had been her only priority.

What a difference a day made.

Quentin's comment rang in her head. What if the Artist wasn't a creation of Yvette's imagination, but was real? That would mean he had Yvette also. That all three lives hung in the balance.

What did she believe? Was Yvette another of the Handyman's victims, or a damaged young woman for whom the lines between reality and fantasy had become blurred?

Patti parked in the drive and climbed out. She intended to grab a shower and a change of clothes, then head back to John Jr.'s. Spencer was doing the same. They would rendezvous after and design a plan of action.

If nothing else, it would keep them busy, keep them from focusing on “what ifs.”

Patti reached her porch steps and stopped. A small cooler sat in front of her door, the kind you could buy at any gas station or convenience store, one big enough for a six-pack. The top had been taped shut with silver duct tape.

Patti stared at the cooler, a tingling sensation stealing over her. Followed by dread. Deep, debilitating dread.

There could be any number of things in that cooler, all innocent. A friend dropping by some fresh shrimp. Or fish. Her neighbor Mrs. Wonch sending leftovers.

Patti's mouth went dry. But that wasn't what was in it. She didn't have to open it to know for certain.

Now you begin to regret your interference.

Patti forced herself to act. Quickly she returned to her car. From the console storage she retrieved a flashlight and scene kit. She fitted the gloves on as she strode determinedly back to the porch, heart hammering, hands beginning to sweat inside the latex.

Patti reached the cooler. She squatted in front of it. Taking a small knife from her kit, she carefully cut the tape. Lifted the lid. Peered inside.

She hadn't been wrong.

A severed hand, nestled in ice packs.

Patti launched to her feet and swung away, fighting for composure. She squeezed her eyes shut. It had been the logical next move—for a psychopath.

Patti took a deep breath.
Get a grip, O'Shay. Divorce yourself. Do the job.

She returned to the cooler, squatted beside it. She snapped on the flashlight and, forcing thoughts of Stacy and Shauna from her mind, visually inspected the hand.

Female, she saw. A right hand; the real deal. It had been brutally hacked off.

She swallowed hard. Judging by how well-preserved it was, it had been frozen or stored on ice. But whose hand was it?

Please, God, not Shauna's. Not Stacy's. And what of Yvette? Could it be hers?

Patti carefully replaced the lid. She had calls to make. The crime lab. Dr. Elizabeth Walker. Spencer.

Dear God, how was she going to tell Spencer? The rest of the family? What was she going to say?

With a heavy heart, she flipped open her cell phone.